


Prestigious

by releasetheglitch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, First Meetings, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5756821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/releasetheglitch/pseuds/releasetheglitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper." </i>—Yeats</p><p>There are three components to every good magic act.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isthisrubble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthisrubble/gifts).



> Eep, it's Reverse Bang season! Here's my little contribution, based off the lovely art by [isthisrubble](http://isthisrubble.tumblr.com/), which was wildly inspiring and a true joy to write for. 
> 
> Keen eyes will spot bits and pieces gratuitously stolen from well-known movies about magic. Find the references :D

There are three components to every good magic act.

First, the pledge.

Moneypenny is lovely as always, stage lights casting amber sparks on sepia-kissed skin. She's put on a new dress for this performance—gold sequinned, clinging low to her bustier. On most people it would appear gaudy. Overstated. On Moneypenny, however, well. There's a reason she remains Bond's most successful assistant.

He watches, now, as she plays the crowd with professional ease. They go crazy, they always do. The men salivate over her long legs, her dark gaze, the blood red quirk of her lips. The women want her too, though not all of them realise it. She’s the vanishing point on the horizon of their daydreams, a spectre rising out of smoke and mirrors.

She draws them in. They’re invested, now. Sitting on the edges of their seats, fingers clenched white over their trembling knees.

So, he takes her away.

He walks up to her. There is no art, no pretense in his stride. She is the angel, and he the everyman, the reflection of their collective desire. The audience holds their breath. They wait for his arm around her waist, claiming her for the realm of the mundane. He touches her.

And she disappears.

Step two: the turn.

There is an audible gasp as she vanishes from the stage. He listens closely. The shock, the second of swollen silence before it bursts into a frenzy of confusion, quiet murmurs crescendoing into shrieks from the more excitable audience members. Those are his favourites. Bond does enjoy a spot of theatricality from his viewers. Then, applause. Uproarious applause for the handsome man in the classic tuxedo, who has brought them an angel and said  _come, behold. These are her wings. This is her halo. This is her in full storybook splendor. There is no other version of the story._  They have tasted perfection. They cannot remain unchanged by the experience.

And yes, there is distress as well. Bond knows they will exchange gossip later, trade theories about the mechanics behind his illusions. Fairy tales of pulleys and trap doors and cleverly trained doves. It’s all futile, of course. None of them will ever find the secret, because of course they’re not really looking. In the end, no one truly wants to shatter the illusion.

They’ve learned a lesson today, these men and women in their frayed finery. There is perfection, outside the realm of dream and fantasy. Unattainable perfection, to be beheld and never tamed.

That is not the lesson.

A final step exists, the hardest part: the prestige.

He holds out one hand, asking for silence. They obey him instantly, like fussing children faced with the promise of sweets.

It isn’t enough to deprive them, after all. He must demonstrate full control over the elusive, calling it to him and banishing it with the same ease.

He calls to her, through the hallways of the Universe, plucking at the strings connecting time and space until he finds the shape of her. He knows the curve of her body with the familiarity of a lover, though they are anything but. Consequences of working together in such close proximity for years.

 _Time to come home_ , he calls, and she smiles.

_So soon?_

Her heels make contact with the lacquered floor of the stage. The audience goes wild. He links arms with Eve and they bow low, drinking in the excitement like ambrosia.

_Abracadabra._

***

“Numbers?” he asks, when the theatre is quiet once more, rafters still quivering with the energy of a good old fashioned standing ovation.

“Steady,” she replies. She’s changed out of the dress into conservative slacks and a blouse. In the dim lights of the dressing room, with an armful of reports and figures, she is mortal once more, though no less beautiful for it. A curl of affection alights in James’ heart. He’s had many assistants through his career. Most of which he’s slept with, most of which whose names he has long forgotten, but Eve is special. He would never betray either of them in that way.

He nods in satisfaction as Eve outlines the monthly trends in ticket sales. James wouldn’t care much for numbers; his craft is a finely honed one, and he has confidence in his ability to keep the audience engaged. Except the institution of Classic magic has long been disappearing. The Great Pemberton, The Pendragon Ensemble, Dr. Strangeton. All gone now. A bit of mundanity must be tolerated for the greater good.

“Also,” she hesitates, biting her bottom lip, and he is intrigued. Eve is a blunt force of nature. She doesn’t hesitate; she blows doors wide open. She withdraws a small, black card from her pocket and hands it to him. “Someone left this for you.”

James accepts the card with a frown. It’s pure, matte black, on some sort of creamy paper that must’ve been ordered from one of the specialty papermakers in Greater London. There’s nothing on the paper; no name, no number, no information. Nothing.

"It was left in with the usual bouquets and letters of adoration," says Eve, and there is a tease there. Bond can hardly fault her. He is very aware that he is hardly a paragon of virtue. "Security says they didn't clear it, that they don't even remember who left it, but it was there nonetheless."

“Who—” he starts, before casting the card to the ground with a startled yell. The card has somehow set itself ablaze, golden flames licking hungrily at the fine cardstock. Eve curses and fumbles for the vase on the table, upending its contents, roses and all, onto the flames. It fizzles out with a dejected curl of smoke.

“A practical joke?” Eve asks, staring at the thing like it’s a dead rat, but James shakes his head. It had caught him off-guard, but he recognises the style now, and it fills his veins with licking anger. The understated yet pristine presentation. The impeccable execution. The lick of all-consuming hunger, worming its way into every aspect of the small offering.

It’s New Magic.

The card has gone out, soggy paper drooping miserably as James lifts it up. Just as he’d suspected, it is no longer empty. A heavy, golden font emerges from the ashes, spelling out in crisp lettering,

_Tomorrow night, the Jolson Theatre._

_-Q_

Then below that, in a curling script that could only have been handwritten, are the small words:

_Unless you’re scared._


	2. Chapter 2

If James had paid more attention in his lessons as an apprentice, he would know the correct protocol for this.

For centuries, the Classic magicians had ruled the world of magic. He still remembers those days vividly, villagers on cobblestone streets parting like fish before a tall figure in a black cape. There was a dark sensuality to those days. A sort of old world, old boys’ club of dusty brandy and rabbits in top hats.

Then _they_ had come at the turn of the century, with their automatons and flashy contraptions, their stone cold eyes and arrogant smiles, and the audience fell at their feet. A New magic for a new world. Suddenly, demand for intimate gatherings with a deck of cards petered out, until all that was left was this new, metallic jungle.

That, and James.

James would not claim to be a humble man, not by any stretch of the imagination. He knows why the audience loves him. _It’s all in the presentation_. He draws out the spine-tingling anticipation of a good climax, holding them on the edges of their seats. He finds the sensuality in the actions; a slow caress of the knife before he plunges it towards his assistant, a lick of the lips before he brings the torch to his lips, a sigh before he plunges into the tank of water.

Not unlike sex, in many ways.

But now, one of _them_ has invited him to a show. To do—what, exactly? He could simply refuse the invitation. James sticks to his craft, and they stick to theirs. There is no reason they should ever have to mingle.

Bond has heard of Q before. Everyone in the United Kingdom has. Q, the rising star in a sky full of comets. The _London Times_ calls him “the most brilliant magician of his generation.” The _Spiegel_ lauds him as “the enigma of the millennium.” Q is secretive, mysterious, and if the rumours are to believed, a true visionary in a craft that often merely builds upon generations past.

He supposes he’s intrigued, just a little bit.

“Will you come?” he asks Eve, knowing fully well what her answer will be.

Never one to disappoint, she snorts. “And listen to you gripe about his technique for the better part of a night? No, thank you!”

So ten days later, Bond puts on his herringbone overcoat and his Camberley boots and walks down to the Jolson theatre alone. As he’d suspected, there are no posters in the windows, no neon signs advertising the most famous magician in this part of Europe. He snorts, a little amused, a little annoyed at the man’s cockiness. Supposedly, the secrecy is part of the appeal. An exclusive performance of the highest calibre, for a hand-picked selection of enlightened audience members. _What utter bollocks._

He hands his card to a dark-eyed man dressed in all black, feeling an irrational pang of loss as he does. For the past few days, he’s been handing the card like a man possessed. His fingers now intimately know every curve and dip of the etched lettering, every crease in the paper, every stroke of Q’s elegant penmanship. Yet to his vexation, he still cannot formulate an adequate hypothesis of how he managed the trick with the fire.

If there’s one thing Bond hates, it’s to be bested at his own game.

“Mister Bond. I’m glad you could come tonight.”

Bond spins around, thoughts fleeing like shadows in sunlight at the sight of the scruffy young man with laughing green eyes. _The greenest eyes he’s ever seen_ , a part of his mind whispers.

As if sensing Bond’s confusion, the boy smiles, holding out a hand. “I am Q.”

“You must be joking,” he blurts without thinking. This—this _boy_ is the infamous Q? The master of machinery? The wizard of prestidigitation?

Rather than becoming offended, Q simply looks amused. “Why, because I’m not wearing a top hat?”

Truth be told, Bond hadn’t even noticed his attire, not with that atrocious head of curls on show. But now that he considers it, Q’s wardrobe is...eclectic. He’s in a white button-down shirt with what has to be the most atrocious cardigan Bond has ever seen. It’s a strange shade of off-yellow with stripes of blue and red going up each sleeve, strands of gold woven through the material so that he shimmers with every move. His pants are red and baggy, made of something soft that swishes around his ankles when he shuffles from foot to foot. They cling to a pair of surprisingly toned thighs. With a slight cough, he realises that he’s staring. And judging from Q’s slight smile, he’s noticed.

“Because you still have spots,” he tosses back, feigning indifference. He's known him for mere minutes, yet he can already sense that Q’s the sort of man who seeks out weakness like a shark that’s scented blood.

Q looks startled for a moment, green eyes squinting in confusion, as if he’s already lost the thread of conversation. It’s a good look on him. Cute, almost. But— what is he doing? He’s here to scout the competition, not to flirt.

“My complexion is hardly relevant,” Q smiles brilliantly, teeth flashing. “But I’ll let my performance speak for itself. Please do find me afterwards, Mister Bond. I’d _love_ to hear your impressions.”

And he walks away, leaving Bond to stare after him. For the first time he can remember in his life, Bond is simultaneously speechless, aroused, and more than a little bit irritated.

He chuckles to himself. _Oh, this should be interesting._


	3. Chapter 3

As everything about Q is unorthodox to the extreme, Bond shouldn’t have been surprised at the room the unsmiling usher directs him to. But somehow, he still is.

It’s, well, it’s a small room. He should have expected that, since everything else about this event fairly screamed _intimate_ and _exclusive._ But this isn’t a stage, it’s a parlour room. Replete with lusciously stuffed armchairs and richly coloured tapestries. The room is dark and smells of cedarwood. There are a few other people there already. Two women in long dresses, whispering so intimately that he feels like a voyeur next to them. An elderly gentleman in a smoking suit lounges on the other side of the room, nursing a decanter of amber liquid. It’s all rather posh, rather grandpa-ish in its design. It confuses him. What’s a New magician like Q doing with a place like this?

He watches as more and more people trickle in. It’s an interesting blend, seemingly chosen without rhyme or reason. Young women in worn blazers rub shoulders with quiet old professor in shabby suits and horned eyeglasses. Soon, the room is filled with warm bodies and the sweet pungency of cigars. Bond entertains himself by imagining how Q will make his appearance. A flash of light and smoke? Dropping down through the ceiling? Turning into a bat and flying through the window? He smiles at his own ridiculousness.

“Now that you’re all here, we can get started.”

The room jumps collectively. Somehow, no one had noticed Q’s entrance. The young man stands at the front of the room, hands clasped behind his back in a manner that could almost be classified as _demure_ , if it wasn’t the for the smug twinkle in his eyes. The quiet conversation stutters and stops, uncertain, before hesitant applause sweeps through the room.

Q waves the applause away. “Thank you all for coming tonight. As some of you may know, my name is Q—” A smattering of chuckles. Only the most isolated of men wouldn’t have heard of Q. “—and I would like to extend my sincerest welcomes to everyone here. You’ve all been chosen to attend tonight’s event for your inquisitive minds, your devotion to the craft of magic, and most of all, your ability to see the unseen.”

His gaze lingers on Bond for the briefest of seconds. _Ability to see the unseen. What does Q mean by that?_ Before he can contemplate the mysterious statement, Q is already moving on.

“Let’s begin with something simple.” He turns to a man in the front row. “May I see your watch for a second?”

The man nearly tears his own arm off in his excitement, and Bond can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. Vanishing tricks, really? Well, it was only the first act of the night, after all.

“Nice piece. Omega?” Q asks, playing with the piece so that light reflects off its face.

“Rolex,” the man preens.

Q frowns. “Ah, I prefer Omega.” Then, before the man could say another word. Q dashes the watch to the floor and crushes it below his foot. The sound of shattering crystal fills the room.

“I say!” The man gasps, face reddening at an alarming speed. Q kicks the watch out of sight and moves away, already setting up for something else. Bond raises one eyebrow. Chances are, the man will find his watch restored in one piece before the end of the night. It’s not magic so much as sleight of hand and some very, very careful reverse pickpocketing.

The poor man is still spluttering as Q takes out two mirrors and faces them toward each other. “Fear not, Mister Williams. Trees that are slowest to grow bear the sweetest fruit. But while we wait for your watch to become reborn, let me take you all to another dimension.”

There are a few excited murmurs at that. The philosophers’ debate over alternate universes, over the boundaries and limitations of infinities has been popular lately. Q gives a small bow, then reaches toward one of the mirrors. His hand disappears into the smooth pane, seemingly vanishing into the air right before them, before they withdraw.

Applause as Q opens his hand, displaying a smattering of small coins. “It’s how I pay rent,” he jokes, laughing along with everyone else at the joke. It’s a charming gesture, and without warming, a drop of fondness blossoms in Bond’s chest. Their eyes meet again, and Bond is sure that Q can see the interest in them. Q winks.

“Also good for putting food on the table,” Q grins impishly. “Apples—” he grabs at the other mirror and returns with a shiny red fruit. “Bread.” Another grab, this time a crusty loaf. “Even meat, if I’m feeling luxurious.” Quick fingers clench around a link of plump sausages, pulling them through the mirror. The cheering this time makes the floorboards quiver.

Bond frowns, intrigued. If it were anyone else, he would suspect them of hiding objects up their sleeves. Q’s wrists, however, are so boney, so bird-like in their fragility, that he can’t fathom hiding even a twopence coin behind them, let alone an entire pantry.

“Do you take requests?” the question is out of his mouth before he can stop himself. Bond blinks as all eyes shift to him, a bit stunned at his own rudeness. In many circles, hs question could be construed as heckling. Somehow, his brain-to-mouth filter has vanished in the intoxicating presence of this boy.

Q, on the other hand, does not seem bothered. “Ah, Mister Bond. How did I know that it would be you?”

“Perhaps you have a talent for clairvoyance,” Bond suggests, meeting that challenging gaze with a smirk of his own.

“Perish the thought!” Q gives a full-body, theatrical shudder. “Well, whatever the reason, there’s something from the other dimension, crying out for you.”

He extends long fingers into the rightmost mirror. Bond cranes his neck forward, seeing something long and green, studded with spikes. His brain registers the image a second before the full-bodied blossoms emerge. A white rose, fresh and lovely as if it had just been picked.

“For those of you who don’t know, Mister Bond is well-known for a beautiful trick where he makes white rose petals rain from the ceiling,” Q explains to the other members of their small gathering. Bond is left speechless, not only at the simple elegance behind Q’s gesture, but at the thought that Q has apparently been keeping up with his career. At least enough to know what his signature act is. Their eyes meet as Q presents him with the rose. When Bond reaches out to take it, their fingers brush, and a jolt of electricity rushes up Bond’s spine. Q has an interesting redness across the bridge of his nose, but otherwise does not react.

Q keeps up a light stream of conversation as he sets up for the next trick. In the dim light, Q’s hair plays in interesting patterns across his cheeks, making them seem more angular, more defined. His eyes are wide and dark, his lips stained the colour of berry flesh. Like it or not, Q is a very, very attractive man.

For the next few hours, Q dazzles them with a series of intricately designed, impeccably clever machines. There’s something that looks like a miniature water fountain that sets miniature firework displays in the shapes of fanciful animals. A machine that takes audience drawings and turns them into real objects. A large bird cage, seemingly barred on all sides, that Q steps in and out of with no difficulty. Even Bond’s jaded heart has to melt at the childlike wonder of Q’s inventions.

Because he’s…having fun. Bond had nearly forgotten the awe that accompanied a well-executed trick. He’s reminded of boyhood nights spent by a fire, pulling coins from behind his father’s ear and beaming proudly at the resulting applause. How long has it been since magic was more than a path to fame and acclaim, more than the easiest way to land a pretty woman in his bed?

Maybe that’s the secret to Q’s popularity. Not the ingenuity of his machines—which are, admittedly brilliant—but the sense of agelessness he wrought. Even if he had no interest in magic, Bond thinks he could listen to Q talk about his machines for hours if he always had that gleam of excitement in his eyes.

There’s magic in the room with them, and it has nothing to do with the machines spitting sparks into the air.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, I’m sad to announce that this will be the final act of the night,” says Q, on cue, and a groan goes up around the room. The sound is short-lasted, however, as there is a marked difference in the way Q conducts himself now. The lighthearted young man seems to have matured in the blink of an eye. He holds himself with a sternness in his spine, a proud tilt to his chin that reminds Bond all over again that this is one of the most brilliant men on the continent.

“I said at the beginning of the night that you were all invited here for a reason. You all have the special gift of insight. From clairvoyants to psychiatrists, from fellow magicians to critics, you notice things that very few others do.” There’s some preening in the room at that, and Bond fights a smirk. Q is awfully good at flattering his audience.

“My hope is that, this insight of yours has meant that you’ve all seen things that few others would accept. Things that challenge your notions of life and death, physics and philosophy, possible and impossible. Things that you have no explanation for, but know to be true, all the same.”

“I invite you to join me now, as I do precisely that.”

An intrigued murmur passes through the crowd. Q takes out a clay flowerpot. Under the watchful eyes of his audience, he fills it with three scoops of dirt, a scoop of fertilizer, and a single orange seed. Then, he moves back.

At first no one is sure what they’re supposed to be looking at. Bond finds his attention drifting, wandering to the way Q’s forearms look with his sleeves rolls up when he hears a sharp gasp. Something green pokes through the top of the soil. The room is silent as the small green stalk stretches upwards, breaking off into tiny buds that swell and ripen into white blossoms. Bond’s nose pricks with the crisp, tangy scent, so at odds with the rich cigar-smoke that clings to the room.

“This is impossible!” A woman at the back of the room shouts, cheeks white with fear. She is summatively shushed by the others. Q ignores the outburst.

The stalk is browning now, hardened into strips of rough bark. Green globes grow larger and blush the colour of a sunset. Then it stops, and Bond swears he can hear a pin drop.

No doubt about it: the formerly empty pot now contains a metres-tall orange tree, ripe and lush with fruit.

Q plucks an orange that droops centimeters below the rest and holds it up to the light. By Bond’s reckoning, it’s an ordinary orange—as ordinary as an orange that was grown in the span of seconds can be, anyway. “’Ah, I believe it’s ready,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Mr. Williams, if you’ll do us the honour?”

Williams fumbles the catch, and small ripples of laughter catch. For the most part, the tension in the room is too high for any bout of true mirth. Q leans against the table, eating an orange as he watches Williams peel his.

Something black falls out of the skin, and Williams jumps back, cursing up a storm.

“Language,” Q scolds mildly. Bond feels chills crawling up his spine, because this shouldn’t be possible. It goes against any sense of rationality he may still possess, any knowledge of the laws of nature.

There is no way that Williams’ watch could have fallen out of the peel. Even if magic is involved. The complexity, the violation of the natural laws, the _impossible-ness_ of it all. It’s like witnessing the appearance of an apparition, or falling head-first into another dimension. If he blinks, this may all disappear.

A loud crash echoes through the room. Williams has fainted, toppled right off his seat like a sack of beans. Bond is amused to note that Q looks only mildly peeved at this. He shakes his head with a sigh, before turning back to his audience.

“Well, that’s all for tonight, everyone. Thank you for attending, and I do hope your minds have been broadened a bit by the things you have seen in this room. If anyone came here with Mister Williams, please do remove him at your earliest convenience, as the night guardsmen get irked when I leave bits of props behind.”

As the rest of the audience gather their stuff up slowly, chattering in barely suppressed whispers about the show, Bond saunters up to the front of the room where Q is packing up.

“Does this happen during every show?” Bond asks casually, hiding his awe as best as he can.

Q looks up, large eyes made even larger by the thick frames of his glasses. “Not every time,” he admits ruefully. “This was a new act that I’ve been trying to perfect for some time. It seems as if I’ve pushed the boundaries of science too far to be considered palatable by most.”

A startled laugh escapes from Bond’s mouth. How many magicians could claim that their tricks were too _magical_ for their audiences? “I quite enjoyed it,” he says, honestly. “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you,” says Q, looking equal parts surprised and smug. His fingers pause briefly where they disassemble machines and lock them into fur-lined boxes. “Rare compliment from a man such as yourself.” Whether compliment or insult, Bond doesn’t know. He accepts the words with grace.

“Perhaps I’m more open-minded than you’d expect,” says Bond.

Q peers at him, canny eyes seeming to open him up and dissect him into all his parts. “Perhaps,” he agrees.

The room is empty now, and Q is packed up. Bond knows he should take his leave and let Q rest. Though it may not look like it, a magic performance is a physically exhausting task. The carefully timed movements, the whip-quick manipulation of several props at once, the non-stop energy for hours on end. If he was a good man, he would let Q get his rest instead of attempting to decipher Q like the enigma he is.

But then, Bond has never claimed to be a good man.

“Dinner?” he asks, half expecting Q to walk away right then. Instead, Q smiles. It’s a lovely smile. One that tints his cheeks and brightens his eyes until they shine like stage lights.

“Nothing would please me more, Mister Bond.”


	4. Chapter 4

Bond leans against the dilapidated pillars near the entrance while everyone else gets into their carriages and buggies. His legs jitter like a boy with his first crush, and his belly flip-flops with—anticipation? Nerves? Excitement? Curiosity? He can’t well tell.

He can’t remember the last time he’d been out to dinner with anyone—eating at Moneypenny’s didn’t count, because she spent the entire meal talking shop; accounts payable and tax returns. And most of the men and women who come to him after a show are more interested in his bed, or his armchair, or on one memorable occasion, his dining table.

It’s all a little intimidating. He’s not even sure what he wants from Q yet. To strip him of his secrets or his clothes. To take him to dinner or take him to Nirvana. The only thing he’s sure is—one look at those canny eyes and clever fingers, and he was long gone.

“Sorry to make you wait.” The soft voice startles him from his thoughts. Damn the boy, how did he manage to sneak up on James like that?

“Not a problem,” he replies, because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do. His eyes wrack appreciatively over Q’s frame. He’s changed from his show clothes into a navy suit top and brown trousers. The suit jacket is slightly too big for him, and his hair’s a mess. It adds an air of eccentricity to his companion’s appearance. Despite his own preference for bespoke suits and starched cuffs, Bond has to admit: he looks delectable.

For his part, Q's eyes fall immediately to Bond lapel, where he has pinned the rose that Q gave him. If Q has any sort of opinion on it, he doesn't voice them. Then again, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners speak loud enough.

Bond offers his arm to Q, who quirks an eyebrow. “I’m hardly a dame to be wooed, Mister Bond,” says Q. Though after a minute, he takes it anyways, and the unfamiliar weight rests comfortably underneath his elbow.

“Call me James,” says Bond without a second thought as they step onto the road. “And I’m quite aware that you’re not a woman, Q, though that won’t stop me from attempting to woo you.”

Q grins. “Forward, aren’t you?”

“You gave me flowers,” Bond reminds him, laughing when Q splutters. The banter is light and easy, and Bond breathes a sigh of relief. So many magicians shed their on-stage persona like a chrysalis in private. Bond is relieved that Q’s easy chatter seems to come naturally. Even more so that though the word magic is never mentioned, their conversation on the way to the restaurant is never stilted.

They stop at a grimy, neon-lit sign, and Q grips his arm tighter in unease. “This is…?”

“A hidden jewel,” Bond replies. Then because Q doesn’t looks very reassured, “Relax, Q. I’m not about to sell you on the black market.”

Q snorts, though he looks a bit more at ease. “As if there are any chains in the world that could hold me.”

Because the opportunity is too good to pass up, Bond leans close to him and smiles, slow and filthy. “I’d love to test that.”

Q smacks him, but it’s worth it for the way his face turns bright red.

The inside of the restaurant hasn’t changed since Bond was last here. Still the same industrial ceiling beams, from which exposed light bulbs flicker merrily. The walls are plastered with peeling posters for cabaret shows and magic productions—Bond recognises one of his own, from seven years ago. The tables are battered but sturdy, the bar well-stocked. The air is thick with the scent of grease and cooking meat. It’s a homey little space. One of the few places that grounds Bond in this world.

He takes pleasure in helping Q unbutton his overcoat, then pulling out his chair for him. Q regards him with a touch of suspicion, but sits down nonetheless. Bond keeps his expression bland, though on the inside, he’s crowing with smugness.

At this late hour, the restaurant is all but empty, something that Q seems to appreciate. Truth be told, Bond hasn't planned for this. But now that he thinks about it, Q must get a lot of attention everywhere he goes. Perhaps an evening of anonymity is exactly what they both need.

Q twists in his seat when the food arrives. He’s got no poker face, Bond notes affectionately. His entire face is lit up in hunger and anticipation. To be fair, even Bond can’t stay stone-faced at the banquet that’s been laid out before them. Suckling pig with roast fennel and warrigal greens for Bond, Spanish braised beef cheek with hearty chunks of tomato bread on the side for Q. On Bond’s recommendation, they’ve both got bowls of buttery leek soup in front of them. The hot food steams up Q’s glasses, and he wipes them on his shirt. There are faint indents where the glasses dig into his nose. Bond can’t take his eyes off of them.

Unaware of his scrutiny, Q digs in with gusto. For such a slight thing, he’s certainly not shy about his appetite. The first bite startles a moan out of his mouth, and Bond nearly drops his fork.

“Oh! Oh, this is _divine,_ ” Q sighs, eyes closed in bliss.

“You’re welcome,” Bond replies, unable to look at the spectacle of Q, doing a truly amazing job of fellating his fork. What’s worse is, Q is completely unaware of the effect he’s having on Bond. Bond is used to the game of seduction, of coy looks and fleeting touches. He isn’t prepared for this. He takes a sip of his soup, unable to taste a thing.

A few bites later, Q looks up from his plate, where he’s doing a thorough job of devouring his dinner. “I’m terribly sorry for my rudeness. I haven’t had a bite to eat since breakfast today. You know how it is.”

“Not to worry,” Bond assures, all too familiar with the total absorption that goes into pre-performance planning.

“Still,” Q continues, “Thank you for inviting me here. It was…unexpected.” _I expected much more antagonism from you_ , remains unsaid.

“I was surprised when I received your invitation,” says Bond, evasive.

Q shrugs, swallowing a large mouthful of beef before he responds. “Oh? I thought you too clever a man to buy into such petty rivalries.”

“You mean you don’t?” It comes out a tad more belligerent than Bond would’ve liked. Luckily, Q doesn’t seem bothered. He’s quickly realising that very little truly rattles the man.

He doesn’t wonder if Q would retain the same composure if he was to lay him out on the bed and take his cock into his mouth. To do so would be unprofessional. But—say that he did—would Q look upon him with the same, mild-mannered arrogance? Or would he fall to pieces under Bond’s tongue and touch, leaving him a quivering, mewling mess? He’s glad for the table that separates them, prevents Q from seeing the obvious interest in his trousers.

“We live in a changing world, Mister Bond, and anything, be it machinery or magic, has its expiration date. I don’t see our differences as a divide in methodology so much as a product of our generations.”

Impressed, James leans back in his seat and regards the young man before him with new eyes. He’d suspected that Q was different than the others of his kind, not for Q to shatter all his preconceived notions in the span of a sentence. “You’re very eloquent,” he says at last.

“All part of the business.” Q tries for modesty, but the blush on his cheekbones gives him away, as does the way he fidgets with his glasses. “Would you like to try a bite of mine? I feel quite the glutton, munching away whilst we converse so finely.”

It’s a clumsy diversion tactic, but Bond lets him have it. There’s a small piece of meat speared on Q’s fork, and Bond captures the delicate wrist in his own palm. Before Q can protest, Bond is bringing the bite to his mouth, eyes fixed onto Q’s the whole time. He can see the dilation of his pupils when he opens his mouth, feel the stuttered breathing against his jaw.

“Delicious,” Bond purrs, unable to suppress the wicked smirk that steals across his face.

“Oh,” murmurs Q, half to himself. “You really are intent on this seduction business, aren’t you?”

“You don’t seem very opposed to it,” counters Bond, stroking his thumb across the pressure point at the base of Q’s wrist before he withdraws his hand once more. The skin is velvet soft, like theatre curtains or Saville Row top hats.

Q shrugs. “Never claimed I was. It’s quite difficult to seek out romantic partners when one can’t be sure whether they are being charmed into bed or into divulging their tricks.”

That, Bond can relate to. But whereas Bond has made it his mission to bed as many admirers as possible and give away none of his heart, Q has locked himself firmly into the world of illusions and prestidigitation.

“And here I thought I could coax out your secrets," rejoins Bond, with a wink that lets Q know he is joking. Well, partially joking. If Q were to offer a few hints, Bond wouldn't exactly be holding his hands to his ears.

To his surprise, Q merely looks pensive. "Much of what I do cannot be considered magic. An advanced understanding of science will reveal most of my tricks as no more magical than schoolyard papier-mâché crafts."

“And the orange tree?” Bond can’t help but ask, though he knows that there is no chance Q will reveal his pièce de résistance to a man who, for all intents and purposes, is his rival. “Can science explain _that_?”

Q is saved from having to answer by a young man who swoops in to replenish his near-empty wineglass. He’s silent while the crimson liquid flows, concentrating so hard he seems to be in a divinatory trance. If Bond didn’t know any better, he’d suspect that Q orchestrated the interruption himself. The sommelier leaves, and Bond is just about to accept Q’s silence as an answer when he speaks.

“Imagine a stage. On one side of the curtain is you, the audience, the vanishing rabbits and floating women.”

“And on the other side, the mundane. Pulleys and false floors and trick mirrors,” Bond completes for him, though he’s not quite sure what Q is getting at.

“Exactly,” Q beams at him. “Now imagine if the stage was life itself.”

Silence.

“I…don’t follow,” Bond admits.

Q huffs. “There is a seam in reality, James.” Then because James still doesn’t respond, he continues, hands aflutter in his excitement. “Picture it as an old stage curtain, sewn and resewn again. Most of us see nothing more than the curtain, the bits and pieces that make up evolution, or planetary motion, or relativity. But look closer, and you'll see mistakes. Parts where the fabric wasn’t stitched up quite right, where you could slip through, if you so wished. All we have to do is find that seam, and enter it.”

“What’s on the other side of the curtain?” James asks, playing along. He hadn’t expected Q to actually reveal his secret, but this is turning out to be a far more interesting diversion than if Q had simply chosen to change the topic.

“The truth.” Then Q smiles, self-deprecating. “Of course, you don’t believe me.”

“It’s a lot to digest,” says James, smile slipping from the corners of his mouth at Q’s serious look. This—this _is_ a laugh that Q’s having on his behalf, is it not? He can’t imagine how it could be otherwise. There is magic, and then there’s _magic_. James is a practical man, despite his chosen profession. He does not believe in fanciful ideas like the ones Q is describing. But at the same time…

He feels faint. He feels as if he’s been asleep his whole life and is only waking up minutes before death, and there’s a sense of _rightness_ about it all, like his whole body is tingling with it, like if he only had more time, he could unravel every mystery in the entire universe.

Then Q says, “May I try a bite of your pork?” and the feeling dissipates once more. Bond thinks nothing more of it, preferring to devote his attention to feeding Q.

All the lights are out when they finally stumble out of the restaurant, Q giggling helplessly at a story Bond is telling him about a man who, so unsettled by the things he was doing onstage, tried to perform an exorcism in the middle of his performance. Q is solid and warm against him, and it feels only natural for Bond to wrap an arm around his shoulder and pull him closer. 

“Come back to mine?” Bond asks, direct. And Q’s head shoots up. He looks devastatingly attractive standing there, wide eyed and blushing all the way down his neck.

Then Q is up on his tiptoes and before Bond can react, a pair of soft lips is pressed against his. They meet for only a second before Q draws back again. His eyes are bright. “I’ve enjoyed myself immensely tonight, Mister Bond. James.”

It’s not an answer, but then Q pulls him back in for another kiss, and it might as well be. Q is clearly not an experienced kisser, and the forever-competitive part of Bond takes pleasure in the fact that this is _one_ area in which he surpasses Q. Still, Q has that innocent eagerness that’s like aphrodisiac to a jaded old man like Bond. He deepens the kiss and Q makes a choked, mewling sound deep in his chest. His breathing is all sorts of erratic and it fuels the need within Bond.

“Come on,” says Bond, one hand resting proprietorially on his back. “I’ll hail a carriage.” He cranes his neck, looking up and down the street for the amber glow of carriage lights. Surely there’s still one or two about, even at this hour.

“If you don’t mind walking, my flat isn’t that far—“ he turns back around to face Q, to brush dark curls out of that serious face and watch the expressive eyes alight with shy pleasure again, but the spot beside him is empty.

Q has vanished.

Confused, Bond glances up and down the deserted street. There are no dark alleyways to be found, no doors unlocked where a nimble young man could dart through in a matter of seconds. For all intents and purposes, Q has simply melted away into the night air.

_There’s a seam in reality_ , Q’s voice whispers in his mind, and a chill that has nothing to do with the brisk wind travels down his spine.

Almost on instinct, Bond reaches into his coat pocket. His suspicions are confirmed when his fingers hit upon shiny cardboard. Two playing cards, as ordinary as if they’d been pulled fresh from the deck.

It’s the King of Spades and the King of Diamonds. He could guess the meanings behind the choices even if he’d not memorized the significance of all fifty-two cards when he was ten. Experience versus innovation, toil versus truth. Bond, the Spade: the suit of warriors, fighting to remain in a world that slips a little farther from what he knows each day. Q, the Diamond: the suit of merchants, of newcomers to an old art. It’s _them_. And Bond understands.

There are three steps to every good magic act.

One, the pledge.

Bond thinks back to a black calling card and a bouquet of flames. Rosebud lips and laughing green eyes.

Two, the turn.

Hot hands and hotter mouth, fading into the night while he’s still dizzy with desire and need.

Three…

And Bond smiles, because there is one final component before the curtains close. And if there’s anything Bond loves, it’s a good magic trick.


End file.
